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He nods, an obedient puppy. To Lucy, he says, ‘These things are sent to test us. Be strong and you’ll get through it.’
In Tommo’s expression Lucy sees something that steals her breath. She watches Bee loop an arm around his waist. Then she leads her group to a table and peels off her RNLI jacket.
PC Noakes takes out a notebook. ‘Mr Locke’s date of birth?’
‘Thirteenth of January, 1979. He’s forty-two.’
‘Can you give me a description?’
‘Five ten, average build.’
Lucy pauses, frowns. It’s a pitiful amount of detail, but when she closes her eyes, she can’t visualizeherDaniel at all, just that lost little boy from the Polaroid. It frightens her so badly her eyes snap back open.
‘Hair colour?’
‘Black,’ she replies, gasping. ‘And he has blue eyes. Slush Puppie blue, you know? Like the drink.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, I … I’m not making much sense.’
‘Any distinguishing features? Birthmarks, that kind of thing?’
The question makes her flinch. No one’s going to locate Daniel thanks to a birthmark, but they might use one to identify him. Seven miles of cold ocean lie between here and where he disappeared. And the plunging mercury is evidence that something truly awful is approaching.
‘My husband has a scar along his right forearm,’ she says. ‘About four inches long. Fluke of an anchor once ripped it open.’
Lucy touches a point on her bare arm and traces the pattern. An image forms: Daniel lying dead on a hospital gurney, the scar on his forearm lightning white against the surrounding skin. It’s such a shocking picture that her chin trembles, threatens to give.
Noakes finishes writing. ‘Can you tell me the last time you saw Mr Locke?’
‘Please,’ she says. ‘Not this “Mr and Mrs” stuff. His name’s Daniel. You can call me Lucy. I last saw him around eight this morning.’
‘Did he give you any indication where he was going?’
Again, Lucy casts her mind back: Daniel in the kitchen, staring through the window at the gunmetal clouds. ‘He told me he was going to work.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Locke-Povey Marine, an outfitting company. His workshop’s at the top of Penleith Beach.’
‘He runs it? Owns it?’
‘Runs and part-owns it. His business partner is’ –a crook, a cheat, a destroyer of all things good– ‘Nick Povey.WasNick Povey.’
‘Was?’
‘They went their separate ways.’
‘Mr Povey’s local to here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘Not this morning.’
‘You have contact details?’
‘Of course.’
Noakes starts scribbling again. ‘Employees?’